


I'll Have To Jump Too

by anonandroid



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Falls, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 01:01:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5144546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonandroid/pseuds/anonandroid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is having trouble believing that Sherlock is really gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Have To Jump Too

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a poem I saw on pinterest that wen't "Roses are red, violets are blue, if you don't come back soon I'll have to jump too". I don't know who wrote it originally but it really hit me hard.

It happened so fast. No one saw it coming. Not even John  
There they stood, one on the roof of the building and one on the ground below.   
“That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.”   
“Leave a note when?”   
“Goodbye, John.”   
And that’s how it happened. One moment he was alive, the next he was lying motionless before him. Dead. One second, that was all it took to end his life, the great Sherlock Holmes, the invincible genius. John’s best friend.   
The impact killed him immediately, crushing his skull. Blood and bits of brain scattered the street. John doesn’t remember what happened next. He doesn’t remember falling to his knees by the body, trying desperately to get Sherlock’s brain back in his head. He doesn’t remember the crowd of people gathering around him, screaming. He doesn’t remember the sirens. He doesn’t remember the policemen guiding him into the car. He doesn’t remember vomiting on the back seat, seconds before blacking out. 

***

He lay on the sterilised hospital sheets, staring at the white ceiling, Mrs Hudson beside him. He was faintly aware of the sound of her sobs and her cold hands in his.   
“Don’t cry, Mrs Hudson.’ he didn’t look at her, his eyes remained fixed on the ceiling.   
“John, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry-“ she spluttered.  
“He’s not dead, he can’t be.” John was smiling now, despite the tears streaking his face. “He’ll be back, we just have to wait. This is Sherlock; you know what he’s like. He can’t be dead. Just be patient.”   
“John, no he’s dead, he’s gone, please don’t do this.” Her frail hands moved to his face, guiding John’s empty gaze in her direction. He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to look at her. If he kept his eyes closed, everything would be fine. Sherlock would come back, Mrs Hudson wouldn’t be crying. Everything was going to be fine.

***

It took John three months to realise Sherlock wasn’t coming back. Three months of loneliness, no calls from Lestrade, and no cases to write up on his blog. It was three months before he could bring himself to even think about visiting his grave. But he did.  
As he entered the cemetery gates he realised how cold it was. When Sherlock was around, they had always been too busy to care about the cold. Now it enclosed him in its icy grip as he limped through the headstones. And there it stood. Tall and dark, an impersonation of Sherlock himself. It seemed almost disrespectful. This man who had been greater than anyone else, who had saved John from himself both mentally and physically. This man, who brought meaning into John’s life just when he thought it was all over. This man, honoured only with an ebony slab.   
John thought back to the funeral. It was big, bigger than he expected. If only Sherlock could’ve been there to see how many people cared about him, John thought. But, if he had been there, we wouldn’t have needed a funeral in the first place. John hadn’t cried. He hadn’t mourned. He hadn’t held a memorial speech. He had been so sure of Sherlock’s return that he didn’t want anything to do with his death. He even considered skipping the funeral entirely. But he hadn’t. Because John now realised that deep, deep down, he knew.   
He took a deep breath, allowing the sharp cold air to fill his lungs and snap him back to reality. He’d come here for a reason; to give his speech in honour of Sherlock’s life. 

“You told me once that you weren’t a hero, and there were times I didn’t even think you were human. But let me tell you this: were the best man, and the most human…human being that I’ve ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you lied. I was so alone, and I owe you so much, but please there’s just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t be dead. Would you, just for me, just stop it? Stop this.”   
And everything he’d kept inside for all those three months, everything that had been building up and overshadowing his life came out all at once. There, at the headstone of his best friend, John fell apart. It was overwhelming, draining.   
The sun began to set and the day was fading by the time John was back in Baker Street. It was empty. Painful. He stayed in his room most of the time. The day had been draining. He felt empty and exhausted. 

***

He’d see Sherlock again, he was sure of it. He knew because he was standing on top of St. Barts roof where he had stood. In John’s hand was a phone, because that’s what people do, don’t they? Leave notes. 

To: Sherlock Holmes  
You didn’t come back.  
Now I’ll have to jump too. –JW

With one foot half off the roof’s ledge, he pressed send. With closed eyes, John remember all the good times they’d had together, and felt grateful that Sherlock had given him a reason to live for just a bit longer, even if he had taken it away so suddenly and cruelly. It was with a smile on his face that he tilted forward and let gravity seize him. Everything seemed slowed down as his body tilted towards the street below. He could feel his blood flowing, his heart pumping. He felt the cold wind blowing through his hair and whipping his face. Arms stretched, smiling and alive. Then he hit the ground.


End file.
